


only blue or black days

by vaudelin



Series: Tumblr fic [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not between major characters), Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Human, Biphobia, Bottom Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Dean Winchester Likes It Rough, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Head Injury, Ice Hockey Player Castiel (Supernatural), Ice Hockey Player Dean Winchester, M/M, Major Character Injury, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin
Summary: Dean flashes a pearly smile, to which Novak shoves a forearm against Dean’s chest, slamming him back into the lockers.“Is everything a joke to you, Winchester?” Novak growls out, all smoke and gravel up in Dean’s face.“Ooh, baby,” Dean purrs, only half-pretending, “you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”





	only blue or black days

Dean’s grateful that Novak waited until after the game before coming after him. Grateful, because getting a penalty for starting a fight on-ice with a teammate would probably take Dean down to whole new depths of embarrassment.

As it is, Novak rounds the corner shortly after Dean’s made his way to his locker. Novak shoulders his way through the rest of the team, tosses his helmet aside for good measure. Dean keeps one brow raised, his gaze trained on Novak with feigned nonchalance. “Problem, Cas?”

Novak’s mouth crumples disapprovingly, a pink line flattening out into an iron-precise crease. “Problem?” he parrots back, and ah no, if Novak’s skipped sarcasm and went straight to imitation then Dean’s ass is about to get dished out real quick.

“Do you know the average number of penalties issued per game?” Novak asks archly.

Great, they’re going back to stats. Dean turns away, stripping his jersey off while facing his locker. Like fuck Dean’s memorized useless shit like that.

“Eight,” Novak continues behind him. “Latest statistics show eight penalties occur per league game. And how many did you receive today, Winchester?”

Dean rolls his eyes and puppets his hand in time to Novak’s jabbering. He glances over to Henriksen at a locker nearby, but Victor’s expression explicitly reads, _Leave me out of this or I’ll be tearing into you next_.

“Seven,” Novak snaps, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and forcing him around. “A month out from playoffs and you’re still spending all your time in the box.”

“Look at me, boosting the average. With the crowds I’m pulling, think they’ll offer me a raise?” Dean flashes a pearly smile, to which Novak shoves a forearm against Dean’s chest, slamming him back into the lockers.

“Is everything a joke to you, Winchester?” Novak growls out, all smoke and gravel up in Dean’s face.

“Ooh, baby,” Dean purrs, only half-pretending, “you’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”

Dean drops his gaze through his lashes, batting his eyes for good measure. Novak flinches back so sharply, Dean would swear Novak thought he had some kind of contagious disease.

Novak spares a moment to ground himself in the crowded locker room, his hands flexing at his sides. “Just—stop picking fights, alright? If only for your team.”

Dean doesn’t mean to laugh; the noise just bursts out from him. “Tell you what,” he says, tone icing over as he stalks toward Novak, “if you can get the other teams to stop calling me faggot for—oh, let’s say two minutes—then I’ll have no reason to start those fights. Mmkay?”

Dean pats Novak’s cheek for emphasis, condescension dripping from his wrist.

Novak slaps the hand away, growling beneath his breath in lieu of answering. He shoots Dean a dark scowl as he departs for his locker by Benny’s, having measured the point of their conversation all but lost.

Beside Dean, Victor sighs audibly, slamming shut his locker door. “Thought you were supposed to play nice with your defenseman.”

Dean snorts. “When he starts, I’ll finish.”

He can’t help it; the guy makes it too easy.

* * *

Later that evening, Dean throws on a coat and heads outside to corner Benny about it, sniffing him out in the smoking area beyond the hotel bar. Benny hangs out back from the building with an old-fashioned in one hand, a lit cigarette balancing between the glass and his fingers. He glances over the collar of his winter coat when Dean approaches, and then holds out his hand. Dean pinches the cigarette off him and sucks it down with a deep breath.

“Trouble in paradise?” Benny mumbles, staring out at all the nothing across the parking lot. A car parks aways out from them, and a couple of late check-ins dart through the cold toward the lobby.

Dean coughs out a laugh, the red eye of the cigarette flaring as he takes another hit. “Not sure when Novak decided he was my keeper. What’s his fucking problem anyway?”

Benny laughs beneath his breath. “The more time you spend in the box, the more time he’s gotta half-ass your spot on offense. Draft’s gonna come up and his defense numbers’ll be down.” Benny raises one brow above his smirk. “You’re messin’ with his stats too, brother, and you know how he hates that.”

Huh. Dean shakes his head, feeling foolish for not realizing it sooner. “Guess he’s stuck until Coach puts me on second string.”

“Nah, he won’t do it,” Benny asserts. “You’re too good, and the fans love you. Singer ain’t a fool; he knows your draw. Just need you to clean up your act, s’all.”

Benny bumps his knuckles against Dean’s chin in an echo from earlier, to which Dean bows back, annoyed, and swipes Benny’s glass in retaliation. Dean sips at it, wincing straightaway at the flavor. “Sazerac. Really?”

Benny shrugs. “Taste of home. Been missing it lately.”

Home, meaning Andrea. The life they put on pause once Benny got picked by the Hawks. Dean stares out across the parked cars, breathing in the crisp night air. He holds the old-fashioned until Benny decides he needs another sip.

“Y’know, Novak ain’t the only one worrying after you,” Benny says casually. “Might be the most obvious about it, but…” Benny shakes his head, then squares himself, looking Dean straight in the eye. “No one blames you for what happened, alright? None of the boys think for one second you wanted to come out to us this way.”

Dean bristles at the reminder, the flash of the camera as Dean was carted away. Only idiots would pick a fight mid-season at a gay bar, but apparently Dean is one of them.

A shiver runs through Dean, shaking his head. “Fuck no. Wasn’t planning on it, ever.”

Benny looks somber at that, like Dean’s disappointed him by missing the point. But then Benny plucks up his drink and drains the glass, thumbing the rim in contemplation. “We’re here for you anyway, brother. Including Novak. When the other teams are chirping, we got your back. So stop picking fights and just play the game, alright?”

This last comment comes with a thump to Dean’s back, followed by a clasp of shoulder so heavy that Dean weakens beneath Benny’s grip. Benny gives a slight squeeze then heads off, back toward the lobby. The cigarette stubs out along the way.

“Fuck,” Dean says to no one in particular, except maybe the shitty hand dealt to him by fate. Two weeks since that trashy article and already his problems have become the team’s problems. Dean needs to smarten up if he wants to keep them on-track to the playoffs, which they’re bombing out of at this rate.

Dean needs to get his head down and back in the game.

* * *

So Dean tries, if not for his own sake then for Benny and the rest of the team. He lets the next home game flood with the chirps of the Red Wings ringing in his ears, his thoughts echoing with the insults swiped out between bench and ice.

Dean hangs right from the face-offs with his head down, expression focused. He takes the checks the Wings throw at him and keeps going, letting them slide off him like water from a duck’s back. Lets the goddamn slurs fly past him, lets his blood pressure rise with each minute spent with those pricks in the attacking zone.

Dean will get through it all, goddamnit. He’ll do it for his team.

Dean’s feeling pretty pleased with himself for all his good behavior, by the time he gets to the third period with only one penalty to his name. That sitout came courtesy of that asshole Haagenti, who threw a particularly nasty comment Dean’s way second period, and to which Dean replied with a hearty cross-check that sent Dean off to the box to cool down.

Still. Dean’s doing his part, playing like a proper forward as he comes in on his shift during the final period of the game. Novak and Benny are behind him on defense, Henriksen up beside him in center and Davies to their left. They’re all energized, doing their damnedest, and manage to pick up another goal halfway through the period, putting the Hawks up by two with ten minutes left in the game.

Dean should have expected something, after Malphas and Ukobach both started hanging out on Dean’s half of the ice. Haagenti makes a play for the puck, but Dean dekes deftly past him, swiping around him closer to the boards. Then Dean’s on breakaway, carrying fast across the ice, when suddenly Malphas and Ukobach are behind him, Malphas up close with his stick hooked across Dean’s chest.

Dean has only a moment to see Ukobach leaning in, shoulder pitched forward, before Dean’s being lifted and slammed across six feet of ice, taking a face-full of boards and collapsing in one fluid affair.

At least, that’s what Dean suspects happens. One moment he’s cutting up the side ice, the next his helmet’s flying and his head is throbbing, his ears are ringing and his vision has fully blacked out.

Whistles are blown, fights are broken up. Dean tries opening his eyes, but between the blood and the pain, he can see nothing but some stars that are rapidly winking out. He tries shaking it off, tries reaching for his stick, but the most Dean can manage is twitching motions of his hands.

Through the high-pitched ringing flooding his ears, Dean hears the crowd roar as another scuffle breaks out further down the ice. Fists are being thrown, but the shouts of the refs and the deafening crowd cut through anything else Dean might glean.

Someone is above Dean, asking him questions, gently fitting a wrapped towel beneath his head. There’s a hand on his chest and atop his head, and half a dozen other bodies crowding around him.

Dean gets fitted with a rigid brace, gets lifted onto a stretcher.

Beyond that, Dean only remembers his blurry requests to get put back on the ice.

* * *

It takes next to no time for the Hawks’ trainer to bow out and send Dean off to the hospital, not bothering to drag Dean into the locker room for the usual post-concussion tests. They send him with the team’s doctor via ambulance, at which point Dean gets thrown through the rigamarole of proving he’s gonna be okay.

Dean comes back to himself sometime during the cut on his forehead getting stitched closed, the pain enough to hone his attention down to a pinpoint sharpness. After that, the physician and her team start walking him through the standard concussion assessment. Dean is able to flex all his facial muscles; his hands pass the squeeze test, and his shoulders manage to hold the spot-pressure being applied.

Dean’s neck isn’t broken, thank god, but when his headache doesn’t clear after an hour they send him off to CTs, just to assess what kind of soup Dean’s made of his brain. His hearing clears up the longer he remains laying down on the gurney, although his balance is still staggered and his vision remains a little wobbly. All in all it’s part and parcel for a rough concussion, but then again, Dean expected much worse considering the severity of the hit.

What Dean isn’t expecting is to find Novak sprawled out in the imaging ward’s waiting room, head bowed over the arms he’s tucked across his chest. Castiel wakes when he sees Dean wheeled towards him, rousing quickly and straightening in his seat. He holds a crumpled leaflet of papers in one hand, which Dean presumes are instructions regarding his post-discharge care.

Dean tries acknowledging Novak, but tipping his head upward just brings him another wince. “Did we win?” _Did I fuck up the game for all of us_?

Castiel frowns, taking a moment to consider his reply. It’s enough of an answer for Dean.

Dean sighs and changes the subject. “Take it you’re the reason why they’re not keeping me overnight?”

Castiel nods, gaze trained low. It’s only with the change in light that Dean spots his facial bruising, Castiel’s eye and cheekbone purpled by one of the Red Wings’ meaty fists. Cas, who makes a point of never joining fights on-ice, sits here in front of Dean with his knuckles scabbed and bloody.

Castiel says, “You need to stay under observation for at least a day.”

“And you drew the short stick, huh?” Dean whistles. “Feel sorry for you, bud.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and nonetheless reaches for Dean’s chair.

* * *

It’s well after midnight by time Dean gets discharged and sent out front, waiting in his wheelchair in the parking lot while Castiel brings his rental up to the front door. There’s an awkward shuffle as Dean tries to climb into the car under his own power, all while stumbling and swaying, and Castiel tries to help him out without being completely overbearing.

Dean collapses against the passenger seat with a heavy sigh, his head pounding once again. He lets Castiel buckle his seat belt, listening in as Castiel then buckles his own. Castiel takes the streets slowly, preferring a route downtown that requires the least amount of turning. The streetlights float through the night sky above them, their halos forcing Dean’s gaze down onto the dashboard.

Dean’s the one to break the silence, clearing his throat with another wince. “You the one they sent to…?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. The whole team stopped by, stayed until visiting hours were shut down.”

“Except you,” Dean says.

“Except me,” Castiel confirms placidly. “With Dr. Harvelle’s permission, they allowed me to stay.”

Dean doesn’t know how to take that information, so he pushes it aside. He feels bad enough knowing that the team lost when they were two points ahead. If Castiel was kicked out for fighting or, worse, he voluntarily left the game, then Dean has even more of a debt to repay.

Miles of streets pass around them in silence. The hum of the city has died down with the late hour, leaving plenty of time for Dean to think and then hate the pain that comes with thinking.

Castiel, for his part, seems like he’s gnawing over something he wants to say. Dean, knowing that the only two subjects they share are the team and the right half of the rink, figures Castiel’s working himself up to lay out some nasty sort of truth bomb, which will be annoying because Dean knows he’ll probably be right.

It surprises him, then, that Castiel says, “You did good tonight. On the ice. The part you were there for, at least.”

Seeing as he expected the exact opposite of a compliment, Dean’s uncertain what to say. “Not sure you’ve noticed, but I lost us the game.”

“You took only one penalty,” Castiel says, and ah, there it is. Those barbed statistics have come out to play.

Dean snorts, then flinches at the way it rattles his sinuses. “One penalty, but fifty-three opportunities to dish them out. I swear, if I hear one more guy hissing ‘cocksucker’ at me, I’m gonna—”

“Dean,” Castiel says archly, and whoa, Dean’s never heard his name in the guy’s tone of voice before, it kinda shocks him how much he enjoys it, “how many weeks are there until playoffs?”

“Is this another concussion test?” When Castiel offers no answer, Dean snaps out, “About three. Why?”

“And how many weeks after that until drafts?” Castiel retorts.

Oh, no. Dean does not like where this train of thought is going. “Too early to worry about drafts,” Dean grumbles.

“If you spend more time in the box than on the ice,” Castiel continues, “then what would you estimate your odds of being picked up by the Hawks again? By any team, for that matter?”

“After tonight, who knows if I’ll even get to play!” Dean argues, exhaling sharply on a harsh breath. His mouth puckers as he mulls over that sour thought. Concussion protocol means Dean’s gonna be off the ice for at least a week, maybe more. Even if he makes it back in record time, there’s no saying Bobby’s gonna trust him to play first line through any of the finals.

Like it or not, Dean’s fate in the league has been sealed.

“It’s done, Cas,” Dean mumbles half-heartedly. “Whatever the GMs think, there’s nothing I can do to make it change.”

Castiel must be catching on now, too, because all the fight goes out of him. He leans back in the driver seat, his hands unclasping their rigid grip on the wheel. “I’m sorry that this happened to you. The season shouldn’t have ended this way.”

Dean shrugs with more bravado than he’s feeling. “I’ve just been making shit up as I go. Never expected to make it far in the NHL anyway. Should be glad I even got the chance to play.”

“I’ve had a path,” Castiel replies, “and rules to follow, ever since I was a child. I had to cut out anything that wouldn’t help me advance in my career.”

Dean gives a half-laugh. “And then here comes your idiot bisexual teammate, picking fights and screwing over your stats.”

“That’s not what I worry about,” Castiel says, surprising Dean with his blandness. “You’re talented, yes, and wasting those talents on brawling. But I look at you and ... I wish I had half as much courage as you.”

Dean snorts, heat rising on his cheeks. “I got outed by a gossip rag. That’s not courage, that’s stupidity.”

“No, that’s not what I…” Castiel clams up, jaw flexing. His hands tighten again on the wheel.

Dean’s pissed Castiel off again, he must have, but as he watches Castiel struggle, Dean realizes the fight’s coming over something clearly uneasy for Castiel to say.

Dawning realization hits Dean, just an instant too late.

“You didn’t ask for it,” Castiel says quietly, “but people know now, about you, and they still love you. My family, they…”

Castiel falls silent, planning out his phrasing. “I’ve never spent a day in my life being out, Dean. I don’t even know what it would be like to just be me.”

The sobriety in Castiel’s tone; the sorrow. Dean’s eyes prickle despite the fight to keep them dry. “I’m not that big a deal.”

“You are,” Castiel says, so fiercely it catches Dean by surprise. “This sport doesn’t allow people like us, and if you get dropped because _those assholes_ can’t shut their mouths for sixty minutes—”

“You’re kidding me,” Dean interjects. “You think they wouldn’t keep you if you were out? You’re the defense team’s wet dream, Cas, racking up all those numbers. And you’re hot, so the crowd’s gonna embrace you regardless.”

“You’re confusing me with yourself again,” Castiel mutters.

Dean laughs in spite of himself. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re mad.”

Castiel’s mouth flattens into its typical pink line, but Dean takes victory in the rosy hue he’s brought to Castiel’s cheeks.

* * *

A month later, when Dean’s completed his physio and finally been given a clean bill of health, he and Cas break him in at their hotel room, filling the six hours they have before their next game against the Penguins with some much needed sexcapades.

Dean’s arms are firmly wrapped around Cas’ shoulders as Cas pounds into him, both hands slotted into the meat of Dean’s thighs. Dean keeps his legs bowed tight around Cas, ankles crossed in Cas’ lower back, and lets his weight fall back onto the window behind him. The glass is fucking cold—thank you, Pittsburgh, but it’s almost _May_—but Dean doesn’t have the will to ask Cas to stop, not when he’s got his hips slotted _just so_, and Dean’s prostate is singing desperately with each and every thrust.

“You gotta keep—yes, baby, _just like that_,” Dean pants straight into the shell of Cas’ ear, taking the opportunity to nip at the lobe.

Cas groans sharply against Dean’s neck, teeth grazing tendon. He pushes Dean harder against the glass and the city beyond, plants one hand above Dean’s head and, impossibly, starts fucking him harder.

Dean’s legs turn to jelly, his grip shaking loose as Cas pins him perfectly in place, spearing him on that perfect dick that Dean’s finally getting to enjoy. Not that Dean’s complaining about the blowjobs, or the past couple weeks Cas has spent riding him, planting his hips as Dean fills him, nice and slow. It’s just nice to have the full repertoire available, the options for their fucking now open and limitless.

Cas grabs his ass, forcing Dean into a new position, and suddenly Dean’s moans shift an octave higher, his grip scrabbling over Cas’ back as his vision whites out and he’s coming, holy fuck, _he’s coming_—

“Think you just renewed my concussion,” Dean pants, collapsing against Cas.

Cas, the asshole, just laughs and kisses the sweat on Dean’s brow. “Do I need to administer pupil tests? How well can you track my fingers?”

Dean swats aside Cas’ hand, hobbling his way over to the bed and collapsing face-first. He stretches out, enjoying the slow return of feeling through his tingling extremities. Into the sheets, Dean mumbles, “My back has frostbite now.”

“I’ll have to warm you, won’t I?” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s hair, bowing over him. He has the audacity to flinch back when his body finally touches Dean’s bare skin. “You weren’t kidding.”

Dean fumbles behind him, forcing Cas to again lay flush, smothering Dean with his weight. “Worth it.”

Cas hums, kissing again at Dean’s shoulder. His hands rub soothing circles above Dean’s hips. “Feeling up for the game tonight?”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Hardly. Need at least a full night’s rest before my legs’ll work again.”

“Too bad. Bobby was telling me he wants you back on first line.”

Dean arches up rapidly, nearly dislodging Cas in his effort to twist around. “You’re kidding me.” When Cas shakes his head, he adds, “You’re not kidding me?”

Cas mouths a soft kiss against Dean’s slack lips. “Welcome back, sunshine.”

“Fuck.” Dean hauls Cas down onto the bed atop him. “Get yourself going, baby, because we’re fucking again after we win tonight.”

Cas laughs, his eyes crinkling, and damn isn’t that a sight Dean wants to see again and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> for the [tumblr prompt](https://vaudelin.tumblr.com/post/185331389298/destiel-52): _“You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”_


End file.
